Pilgrimage

I discovered the tradition of Lent in the midst of reentry turmoil. Having grown up in denominations that didn’t practice it, Lent was entirely new to me, but the clear structure—forty days—and the history of it felt like a haven in the chaos. When I felt disconnected and alone, this practice connected me to countless believers around the world and throughout the centuries; it connected me to Christ, and it reminded me that I was part of a heavenly family.

Now, although it has looked different each year, the practice continues to be a gift for me. It feels like an invitation from God. An invitation, gentle and kind, to look honestly at my own sin and brokenness and that of the world, to allow myself the space to grieve and to repent, to see clearly my need for a Savior and for a hope greater than this world can offer, and then to look with eyes anew at the wonder of Christ Jesus on the cross.

Perhaps I say it every year, but this year more than any other, it feels as through the different spheres of my life are spinning off their axes, and I don’t know when they will stop or where they will land. I entered the season of Lent feeling empty and wrung out, with nothing to give. Back-to-back natural disasters, food shortages, and financial stressors have been the growing background hum to confrontations with the pain and brutality of a broken world and broken people. I am tired. But the invitation is there just the same. This year, to mark the season, I have been getting up early, a few hours before dawn, to spend extended time with the Lord.

I come to this time imperfectly. Occasionally, there are days when I wake up before my alarm and am ready to go, but more often than not, my eyelids are heavy and I must claw my way from sleep to wakefulness. This time is worth it, so immeasurably precious to me, but in the darkness, slumber is alluring. I’ve learned that, in order to be present in this space, to be able to savor it, I must go to bed a little earlier with things already prepared for the morning. My alarm goes off and bleary-eyed and groggy, I stumble to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, grateful that I laid out everything I would need the night before. The process of brewing the tea is just enough time for my brain to kick into gear, to remember why I’m awake at this hour. In my room, the pre-dawn dark is shadows at the edge of yellow lamplight. I curl up in the warm glow with a blanket and my tea, and I spend time with my Savior.

In this quiet, early morning ritual, a pilgrimage of sorts is taking place within my heart. On Ash Wednesday, at the beginning of the forty days, Easter Sunday seems far away, a dot on the horizon. Familiarity with salvation and with the Savior awakens my awe of that day so long ago. But day by day, as I get slowly closer, as I am changed by the time spent with the Lord, it grows to fill my vision, radiant and glorious, and finally I understand a little more of what this particular Sunday is—a celebratory feast at the table of the King, triumphant salvation, endless joy, life filled up and everlasting, abundance pressed down and overflowing, bought at great cost, yet given freely.  How wonderful the celebration must be in heaven!

As Easter Sunday arrives and the season of Lent ends, I always find myself a little sad, even in the midst of all the joy and chocolate. Without the margins Lent provides, it takes me a moment to get my bearings and to know how to move forward in the ordinary days. Lent is a space carved out to savor my time with the Lord, to drink deeply and to be transformed. And transformed I am. My vision is a little clearer, my hunger for God and for his Word a little greater, my heart for his world renewed in the light of his great love. I know my need for him, and I am so thankful that the invitation to come away with him is always there. 

Has God met you in this season leading up to Easter? What invitations do you sense from him?